I sing a song of foolishness, of GUY FAUX, chief of sinisters, Who fain would blow the Commons up, the PREMIER and his Ministers: That is, he piles combustibles as he were game to do it; Let’s hope he’ll be prevented, or he’ll be the first to rue it. A sort of GUIDO FAUX _pour rire_ he seems for all his swaggering, Displaying boylike rashness that to thoughtful men is staggering, That is, it would be staggering, and Statesmen wiser, truer rile, But that he’s played so many games, and most of them so puerile. Although he’s bearded like the pard, and looks all fierce virility, At least as a Conspirator he shows some juvenility. That is, the juvenility of urchins who complacently Will let off squibs and crackers when combustibles adjacent lie. If you should call him GUY FAUX, he’d deny it quite indignantly. None could regard the House of Lords more fondly and benignantly. That is, whilst they will follow him; and any plans explosive About _them_ he’d repudiate with invective most corrosive. But there’s a horrid Incubus, a Demogorgon hideous, Who dominates the country by his blandishments perfidious. That is, he artfully pretends that he the country dominates, Though everybody――more or less――his rigid rule abominates. His crafty head to blast from him and skyward swiftly send it sure, Would justify, in gunpowder, a very large expenditure. That is, if some perchance might shrink from sheer decapitation, At least to blow him from his seat would gratify the Nation. And so――and so, to mine below the Commons-swaying throne of him, Might end at least in bursting up the power overblown of him. That is, the game is worth a try, and――well――_if_ not a bit of him. Remain to tell the dreadful tale, the Commons are well quit of him. The stars in their calm courses may be confidently trusted To fight against this Lucifer until his rule is “busted.” That is, one might feel confidence in influences stellar, But our poor unconscious Guy Faux has got _into the wrong cellar!_ It _is_ the House of Lords, alas! that he is mining under, And it and he will presently go up in flame and thunder, That is, they _may_ in flame go up, if Guy Faux do not falter; But we’ll hope at the last moment his explosive plan he’ll alter. _Punch._ November 8, 1884. ―――― A BRADLAUGH BALLAD.